


On The Phone

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce reads something in the paper he really, really wishes he hadn't. A phone call ensues. </p><p>This is part of a series of Bruce/Hal established relationship stories, taking place in the same universe. The first story is <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2461409">On Top</a>, though these are not imagined in any particular order.</p><p><b>ETA:</b> Now with amazing art! <a href="http://cakechoz.tumblr.com/">Cakechoz</a> has illustrated this scene <a href="http://cakechoz.tumblr.com/image/100394009706">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Phone

It was the absence of the morning paper on his breakfast tray that alerted him to trouble.

"Alfred? Any idea what became of my paper?"

"I think Master Damian may have stolen it, sir. I will have his room searched immediately."

Bruce glared at him over the rim of his coffee, and left it. He had never won an argument with Alfred, and this morning was probably not going to turn his record around. So he got dressed, skimmed the _New York Times_ and _Daily Planet_ headlines on his tablet while he shaved, and headed down to the office. He didn't think of the _Gotham Gazette_ again until he was on his third cup of coffee, standing over his desk, staring at the paper his secretary had laid out for him. 

Easy enough to see what Alfred had been determined he should not see: a smallish article in the "About Town" section. It was the photograph that was the real scoop. They had been careless, and it had been his fault. He was the one who had followed Hal out into the gardens the night of that party. He was the one who had not checked sightlines from the house. It was his fault.

It wasn't a bad photo in and of itself, and they hadn't been doing anything terribly explicit. It had just been a quick kiss, a brush of lips before heading back to the house, but some bastard with a cellphone had got lucky. He chewed his lip as he considered the difficulty of going back through the security tapes and finding the culprit. It had been, what, maybe quarter to eleven when they had been outside, night before last? Easy enough to search the time stamp for fifteen minutes on either side of that. There were only a couple of places the picture could have been snapped from. It would be a simple matter to excise the offender from any Wayne guest lists in the future, and to ostracize him or her from polite society. A satisfying, if pointless solution, and his eyes scanned the predictably mindless article, most of it not even about him but about the party, and who had worn what.

And then he saw what Alfred had been hoping he would not see.

It wasn't the picture that was the problem, but the paragraph on Hal. Because of course identifying Hal had taken maybe half an hour's work, from an enterprising editor. 

_As for Bruce Wayne's newest squeeze_ (the piece of pondscum had written), _reliable sources identify him as Hal Jordan, test pilot for Coast City's Ferris Air. Jordan held a series of part-time piloting jobs after his dishonorable discharge from the Air Force five years ago, and it's unclear exactly what Gotham's most famous playboy has in common with this good-looking but financially challenged drifter._

 _Of course, it's probably not metaphysics they're discussing. And Jordan's career choices seem to be looking up: cuddling up to Bruce Wayne has definite economic benefits even a flyboy can see._

Bruce set his coffee cup down and re-read the blurb, then read it again. He reached for the cell in his breast pocket, then thought better of it. He placed his palms flat on the desk and studied them, centering his breathing. "Mr. Wayne," his secretary said, sticking her head in. "Your ten o'clock has—"

"Not now," he said, more harshly than he had intended. She shut the door.

When he was certain he had his anger under control, he called Hal. It was rare for him to call instead of texting, so he knew Hal would pick up on the first buzz, if he could. "Hey," said the warm voice.

"You need to know," he said, "that there's a piece in the _Gazette_."

"Saw it," Hal said. "No big deal, don't worry about it. It'll be some other asshole's turn by Friday, and they'll forget about us. Speaking of which, we're still on for the lake, right?"

Bruce was silent a moment. "No big deal," he repeated.

"Look," Hal said, and he heard the pause as he got up to shut a door. There was a room in Ferris's air traffic tower he used for logging his flights, with a rickety metal desk stacked high with papers in an inscrutable filing system. That would be where he was right now. And he would never have seen the _Gazette_ on his own; that would have been someone pointing it out to him. That would have been someone laughing and enjoying the joke. Quieter, more malicious laughter in the locker room, behind Hal's back. Goddamn them all to hell.

"Look," Hal said again. "This whole thing where we pretend like Hal Jordan and Bruce Wayne don't know each other — or any members of the League, for that matter — that's just stupid. I say, what the hell's the big deal. Hey, if it'd make you feel better, we can stage a spectacular break-up at a restaurant next week, and then you can get lots of nudies with some hot model during some Fashion Week, and that will be that. Problem solved."

"You think the problem is the exposure of our relationship."

"Well. . . yes? What's bothering you, the picture? Because it's a pretty good angle for you. Much better for you than for me, if we're being honest. You're so goddamn photogenic."

Bruce tapped on the desk with his finger. His chest felt uncomfortably tight. _Dishonorable discharge. Drifter. Economic benefits._ Every knife they could possibly find, driven into the center of Hal's body in four sentences. "You know what's bothering me," he said quietly. "You were called a whore. They called you a whore. Because of me. A fact that has not escaped you, even though you are pretending it has."

There was silence on the other end. "Bruce," said the voice after a while. He shut his eyes, not wanting to hear what Hal was going to say, feeling only the shame engulf him. Hal Jordan had been called a whore, and it was because of him. Hal Jordan, of all people. And Hal was trying to tell him it was okay. 

"I will buy the _Gazette_ ," he said, through the choking clench of rage in his throat. "Which I can easily do. I will find this sorry piece of trash and make sure he never works again. I will burn the building to the ground. I will destroy them all."

"You're not gonna do any of those things," Hal said, "and you know it. Bruce, listen to me. Babe. Given the state of your bank account, I would have to be Beyoncé, or a Saudi prince, in order not to be a whore, and unfortunately for you I am neither one of those things. There have to be, like, four people on the face of the earth who could get away with it. Anyone who loves you gets called a whore, that's the name of the game."

Bruce clenched his jaw, feeling the muscle spasm. Because of him and his carelessness, this had happened. He should never, never have insisted Hal come to that party. It had been a foolish, unnecessary risk. And following him outside like that— 

Because of him, every reader of the _Gazette_ would have a moment's snicker at Hal's expense. Would wonder how much he got for sucking billionaire cock, and move on to the next article with a small dismissive chuckle. Bruce walked to the window and gazed out at the gray skyline of the city he had never hated more than this morning. 

"I don't need a Saudi prince," he said. "No comment on Beyoncé."

"I figured," Hal said. "Samesies."

"Do you?" Bruce said, after a while.

"Do I what?"

"You didn't say, anyone who _dates_ me."

Another small pause. "I know what I said."

His throat spasmed shut again. He fought against it. "You know it's the same," he whispered. "For me. The exact same. Tell me you know that."

"I do now," Hal said, his voice gone as quiet as Bruce's. 

"I will make this right. I swear to you. I will make this up to you."

"Oh God, why do I have the terrible feeling this is going to end with the severed head of some poor copywriter on my front doorstep. Bruce. Why can't you just give me a blow job like a normal person?"

"Your expectations are unreasonably high."

"My expectation is that you will leave this alone. My expectation is that you will not let these fuckheads into our life. They don't have anything to do with us. Nothing they wrote has anything to do with us. I expect you to goddamn remember that."

The warmth of Hal's voice had slid into steel, the way it sometimes did on a mission. Laughing and talking shit with Oliver one minute, cold green fury dealing out death the next. And then he would pick up his conversation right where he had left it off, same easy lines on his face. He had seen it when Hal was piloting the Javelin in combat too, the way he could slide back and forth between the two states of being effortlessly.

"Yes," Bruce said. 

They sat there in silence on the phone together. 

"We could grab lunch," Hal said eventually.

"No. I've got a meeting that's waiting on me right now, and work I've ignored all week. I'd better make my twice-weekly appearance here count for something."

"Tonight then."

"Tonight," Bruce said, trying to make those two syllables mean everything he wanted them to mean, but knowing he probably just sounded gruff. Or maybe not. Maybe Hal heard in his voice all the things he heard in Hal's. Maybe there wasn't anything all that special about Hal's voice; maybe he was just hard-wired to hear things in it. Maybe it was the same for Hal. Maybe they heard things that weren't there, or maybe they heard the things that were always there, and only they could hear them.

He cradled the warm phone in his hand after Hal had hung up, and studied the skyline of the city he perhaps, possibly, did not hate as much as he had fifteen minutes ago. He reached for his desk phone. 

"Send them in," he said.


End file.
